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by JoonieBug



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Please Kill Me, This is literally an assignment i did, Trans Lance (Voltron), but like rlly subtle, i guess?, i kind of projected on lance a bit, i want him to suffer, little bit of langst, read it if u want, this is kind of shit but i mean, why is that a tag oml, you can imagine whoever you want with Lance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-20
Updated: 2017-03-20
Packaged: 2018-10-08 09:52:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10384020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JoonieBug/pseuds/JoonieBug
Summary: It was and endless cycle of yelling, apologizing, and "I love you"s.He didn't stop saying it back until he was fourteen. He didn't stop believing it until he was sixteen.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So this is literally just an assignment I did for a journalism class where I changed a few things. Lance is trans in here BTW (cuz I like to project on lance a lot tbh). It probs sucks, but uh enjoy? This is p much just Lance living my life... *cringe emoji*

The house he lived in wasn't a home, no, not now. Not to him. The house he lived in was a place to sleep and get wi-fi so he could finish his homework. Sure it was loud and everyone seemed _so close_ , it really did look like a home in every aspect of the term. But it wasn't. It wasn't a place he could go and relax. At that point, the closest thing to a home he had was his friends. And even then he knew he wasn't wanted, he knew they could, no _would_ , find someone better. It was just the way it always went for him. He met new people, he made friends, and eventually they left. He was used to it by now.

He didn't like returning to his house, there it was subtle shame. Little things they said to him that were uncomfortable, things that implied he wasn't who he said he was. Whispers of 'fake' and 'liar' could be heard, even in the dead of night, when everyone else was asleep. He wanted to leave, he wanted to leave as soon as he could, and had to keep reminding himself day after day, four more years, only four.

He was certain of quite a few things. One, that he was not who they perceived him to be. And that was enough cause to panic for them, everything else didn't matter. In this house sins were taken and milked for all they were worth. "It was your choices that got you into this situation" they said, months and months after the incident. They said they could forgive, but when would that happen? He was beginning to see flaws in the people he used to think were perfect. He could see everything in him, in them. Everything he did that he didn't like, they did as well. It was and endless cycle of yelling, apologizing, and "I love you"s.

He didn't stop saying it back until he was fourteen. He didn't stop _believing_ it until he was sixteen.

His room was pink. The exact opposite of who he was. He was blue. He had a desk, it was covered in papers, and a corkboard that held precious memories. Times when the corners of his smile didn't stick like a fly trap, but were drawn up easily. Youth was such an innocent time, he wishes he had never left.

In the corner of the room were a few soccer balls and a blue kickball. He used to love kickball, but he had run out of people to play with. Soccer was fun, soccer was safe. Keeping the goal empty was his favorite thing to do. It didn't matter what teams his mother put him on. What color cleats he was bought, so that someone could make a statement about him. Nothing mattered but playing, and being able to keep playing. To remind himself of this he kept various pieces of merchandise in his room. A poster here, a magazine there, his gloves on the dresser, shin-guards in his bag. He tried softball, actually. But that was too much, hit too close to home. He wasn't strong enough.

On top of a few drawers was a record player. He had recently got it from a late relative. A vinyl or two sat on a shelf, his favorite-When the World Comes Down, The All American Rejects- on top. He liked putting on music when he was alone, that didn't happen often, but it did happen, and he was glad for it. He was hoping to someday find Sheer Heart Attack, by Queen, but that was something for a later time.

Sometimes he liked to sing along to the songs. He liked to sing without music as well. He sang in the shower he had yet to clean, the kitchen when he prepared himself a snack. Everywhere he could get away with it, he sang until someone yelled at him to shut up.

***

I've moved out, since then. I live quite a ways away from Tallahassee now, in a small apartment, on the outskirts of Manhattan. It took a while to get there actually, college was grueling, but eventually I finished, and received my diploma. Immediately I searched for a job, and it took a few months, but I did find one. And then I was in New York.

Nothing matters in New York. No one knows who I am, who I'd been. It's amazing. I still talk to my family, but it's always clipped, and forced. That's fine too. Now when I wake up and head to the hospital I walk. Everything is so easy now, I can take it slow, and enjoy life. Something I had longed for in the earlier years of my life.

Everyday a new kid comes to me with different problems. And I won't say I remember them all, because that would be a lie. But there are some that are just unforgettable. There's Jimmy, who had broken his arm trying to save his pet Toucan from a tree. Then there's Martha, who came alone. A silent little girl. Of course I remember Theo, who used to be Theodosia, but he didn't like that name. His mother was very eager to learn. I smiled.

They're all so young, and so bright. So happy, and energetic I almost forget they're injured, or need a checkup. I love them.

The apartment has windows in every room, I like the natural light. The shower still gets grimy, but I remember to clean it. When I sing in the kitchen no one yells or tells me to shut up. They join in, and it's beautiful. In fact I've expanded the audience for these little solos. I now perform at a little coffee shop a few blocks away sometimes. It's fun, and earns me extra money, I can't really complain.

I may have moved in to the apartment more recently, but it feels more like a home than it should. It isn't always loud, quite the opposite actually. Both of us have lots of work to do. But I feel safe, I feel that I can relax. These feelings are precious, I cling onto them.

There are no more whispers in the night. My room is blue now. I am blue now. But not sad, never sad. Wistful, maybe.

I kept the record player, and use it often, as there is no one to tell me I can't. We like music. And we both get distracted easily. It's a destructive process, but it works, we work. As we stand, side by side, cooking what would be dinner tonight, I smile. The music plays softly, a melancholy melody, dressed in lyrics of the beauty of grey. As we dance, and sing, and cook, and laugh, I grin. This is safe. This is _wonderful_. _This_ , is home.


End file.
